


torn and tattered

by peterstank



Series: built from scraps [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, everyone deserves a hug, everyone is in it this time, i could go on, we’ve got communication issues, we’ve got drama, we’ve got hurt/comfort, we’ve got mystery, we’ve got peter Trying His Best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: The Secretary of State stands when Peter and Nat enter. He holds out his hand for Peter to shake. “Ah, Mr. Parker, we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Thaddeus Ross. Jesus, that’s quite the grip you’ve got.”Peter nods. “Yeah well, y’know,” he shrugs. “Comes along with being bit by a radioactive spider.”or: how much crap can peter take on before he finally breaks?
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: built from scraps [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556035
Comments: 181
Kudos: 599
Collections: Spider-Man Public Identity Reveal





	torn and tattered

**Author's Note:**

> still on my bullshit.

“Is love real?”

“What do you mean?”

It’s quiet in the little fifth floor office, dimly lit solely by a lamp in the corner. MJ’s always found it kind of homely and comfortable: there is a low grey couch and two chairs to match, upon one of which she sits. At her feet, Olivia is perched in front of the coffee table neatly shading a picture out of a colouring book. 

“It can’t be like it is in the movies,” Olivia elaborates. “There are no princes or castles or anything, right? And Mommy left Daddy and me when we were all asleep.”

MJ watches Olivia grab a red crayon. “Did that make you feel angry?”

Its crimson tip accidentally slips out of the lines. Undaunted, Olivia keeps going, pressing even harder. “Don’t know.”

MJ scoots closer. “Do you care about your daddy?”

Her touch lightens. “Yeah.”

“Would you be upset if he left?”

Olivia pauses. After a few seconds, she nods jerkily. MJ can tell this is something she doesn’t want to think about. 

“Do you think maybe you love him? And that maybe there are all different kinds of love, and they’re all real, but it just takes the right people to make you feel it?”

Olivia bites her lip. She thinks about it, hard. “Yeah, I think so.”

MJ nods. “Me too.” 

Olivia picks up a yellow crayon, now, and then says, “I don’t really miss my Mommy. I guess that’s why I wanted to know.”

MJ bites the inside of her cheek. She thinks about her own mom who skipped town just after her husband was convicted of manslaughter. She’d left MJ to literally raise Charlie on her own. “You don’t have to miss your mom,” she finds herself saying. “It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“You’re sure?”

_Am I?_

MJ eventually nods. “Super sure. And hey, guess what?”

“Time’s up?”

“Time’s up,” MJ agrees, standing. They’ve been meeting once a week for the last three months, so they’re both able to measure their sessions pretty well without even having to look at the clock. 

Olivia asks if she can keep the picture and, like always, MJ says yes. She packs up her things while Olivia runs out to meet her dad. 

“Cute kid.”

MJ raises her head and finds Peter standing in the doorway. He’s holding lunch. 

“She has her moments.” 

Peter’s never actually visited her here. She hadn’t even thought he knew where the building was located. Usually _she_ makes the hike up to the Tower to bug him into leaving various projects or lectures to eat, like, a salad. A burrito. A crumb. _Anything._

So she asks, “What are you doing here?”

“I brought food,” he replies, stating the obvious. “And I missed you.”

MJ feels herself smile. “Shut the door.” 

She’s not so moronic as to pass up the opportunity to hang out with him. He’s been so busy lately with all kinds of shit, half of which she’s pretty sure hasn’t even been disclosed to her. He’d come home _drunk_ last night, which is like—it takes a lot to get him drunk. It had been funny in the moment, but upon reflection it’s kind of concerning because it’s been happening way more often than it used to. 

But he seems fine now as he pulls styrofoam containers out of a bag to reveal heaps of Thai food. They’d used to eat it all time in high school. On the days when staying after school was too much, they’d hole themselves up in that run down little restaurant in Queens and study until Peter was sure Pepper was gonna wring his neck if he didn’t get home soon.

MJ settles across from him. She grabs a plastic fork. 

“Can I ask you, uh,” he clears his throat. “I woke up with the weirdest feeling—like maybe—you know when you have to pee in a dream and you wake up and you actually have to pee?”

“...Yes?”

“Well I had this dream—or I guess just a feeling, I don’t really remember the specifics—anyway, we were um… pregnant?”

MJ scoffs. “Don’t say ‘we’, I hate that. _I_ am the one who carries the baby. _I_ am the one who gets pregnant.”

“So are we? You?”

“No.”

His mouth opens and then snaps back shut. “Oh?”

MJ rolls her shoulders uncomfortably. “It was a joke. Sort of.”

“A joke?”

He doesn’t seem to find it funny. She doesn’t anymore, either. “I just wanted to… they say that when you’re drunk you’re more likely to be honest, or you’re more vulnerable with your emotions or something. I just wanted to know what you really thought about the whole thing.”

He nods slowly. 

“I guess I should say… I’m, uh—it might be better that you’re not.”

MJ stiffens. “What?”

“I just—”

“You’re not backing out of this are you? Because like, I’ve been off of birth control since _June,_ dude. I’m in, okay? I’m tracking my fucking cycles and taking folate supplements and eating _fish._ I fucking hate fish.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “I’m not backing out.”

“Okay,” she says, running a hand down her face. “Okay, so what?”

“I found out some shit yesterday,” he says. “Some really unideal shit that might mean… we shouldn’t. Or at the very least we should wait so I can figure it out first.”

“Figure _what_ out?”

“I can’t really tell you—”

“Oh, _don’t._ Cut the bullshit, Peter. This affects me, too.”

“It’s just a lot to explain and there’s… there’s just a lot of shit up in the air right now, okay? It has to do with me, with my genetics. It’s not you.”

“You think I give a shit if it’s me or you?” MJ shakes her head. “Don’t you get by now that it’s _us?_ It’s your genetic code but you’re—I have a right to know. Don’t I? After all the shit we’ve been through?”

Peter’s face softens. “I’ll explain it all when I _know_ how to explain it. I just need a couple of weeks.”

“ _Weeks._ ”

“Please?”

MJ rubs her temples. Suddenly the food isn’t so appetizing. “God. So what, I’m just supposed to go back on birth control until you can—I don’t even know. You won’t even tell me. This is so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Peter says. “I’m asking you to trust me here. Haven’t I kind of earned that by now?”

She swallows the burning feeling in her throat and her silence goes on a little too long. The next thing she knows he’s sighing and packing up his food. 

“Peter...”

“No, it’s—I’m not upset. I just have a few meetings and things I have to help Pepper with so I’m just gonna… I’m probably gonna spend the night at the tower, okay? I’ll call you, I promise.”

MJ’s stomach sinks. “Right. Okay.” 

She forgets to say _I love you_ before he goes. In her defense, so does he. 

* * *

“Higher,” Bucky says, and then, “harder.”

Lang grunts, irritated. She aims another kick for Keener’s left side but misses. 

“Stop.”

They both step back, panting despite hardly grazing the other for the thirty minutes they’ve been going at it. “Lang, why are you holding back?”

“I’m _not._ ” 

“What does the sign say?”

Lang’s eyes drift over to the piece of lined paper taped to the wall that reads, in messy red crayon, _NO BULLSHITTING._ She swallows. “I don’t wanna hurt her.”

“Why not? She’s your opponent.”

“She’s my _friend.”_

“Do better.”

Cassie blushes. “Can we just—can’t I just fight Charlotte or something? We’re a better match anyway.”

“Which is _why_ you need to fight someone stronger than you, like Keener here,” Bucky says. “You won’t learn if it’s never a challenge. Go again, and actually try to hit her this time.”

They go another round and Lang, in the pinnacle of merciful acts, grabs Ariel’s leg and knees her in the rib cage. Ariel goes down and Lang gets her in a chokehold. 

“Good,” Bucky says, as Cassie helps Keener to stand. “That was a whole lot better. You’ve gotta be aggressive with each other. Doesn’t matter what things are like off the mat, okay? Once you’re on, you’re enemies unless I say so. Got it?”

They nod, so Bucky calls Charlotte and Gwen over. “Okay, two for two.”

“But it’s _Gwen,”_ Jones protests. “She’s like, impossible to beat.”

“What did I say? Am I talking to walls here? The harder your opponent is to beat, the more you learn from them, the stronger you get. Sure, Stacy’s got an unfair advantage, but strength isn’t a fighter’s only attribute. If you can be smarter or quicker, you can beat her at her own game. Try to tire her out, Jones.”

They go at it. Bucky studies their movements. Gwen is fluid and flexible. She’s much stronger than Charlotte, who barely has any muscle on her at all; but she takes Bucky’s advice to heart and rolls around Gwen’s advances, side-steps every swipe, feins kicks and punches to one side before landing them on the other. 

“Good instincts,” Bucky tells her when the fight is over and she’s flat on her back, blinking dazedly. “Not half bad for a civvie.”

Jones squints. “One day, I’m gonna be tough enough to beat the shit out of _you.”_

Bucky smiles. “I look forward to it.”

He calls it there and while they’re all stuffing their gym bags, he says, “Lang, stay after.”

Cassie casts an apprehensive glance toward her friends, but does as he asks. Bucky unwraps his flesh hand as he walks to her. “Your dad’s the shrinky-dink, right?”

Cassie frowns. “How do you even know what that is? Weren’t you born in like the twenties or something?”

“1918,” he corrects with a smirk, “I catch up quick. But I’m right, right?”

She shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah. So?”

“So, does he know that this is where you come after school four times a week?”

“Uh… maybe?”

He gives her a hard look. 

Cassie sighs. “Okay, so he doesn’t, but who cares? What’s so bad about you teaching me self defense?”

“Because I’m uh, not exactly every parents’ hero,” he tells her. “And you and I both know that you’re not here just to learn self defense.”

“We do?”

“You want to be able to fight.”

She lifts her chin in defiance. “So what if I do? Maybe—maybe I kind of realised how expendable my dad is when he was literally _gone_ for five years of my life, and maybe I don’t just wanna stand around if it ever happens again! You don’t understand what it was like for us during the stupid Blip, okay? You might’ve been dust or whatever, but we _lost,_ and we were _terrified._ I was so fucking angry and all I wanted to do was get revenge and—”

“ _Good.”_ Bucky grins. “So next time I tell you to kick Keener’s ass, think about that anger and fucking _do it.”_

She blushes. “I—oh?”

“Oh,” he agrees. 

Cassie clears her throat. “Um. Okay. But there’s also, like, this whole other reason I don’t wanna hurt Ariel.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“She, uh… I kind of… like her? In a more than friends way?”

If someone had told him before the war that in less than four years (by his perception, anyway) he would be standing in the Avengers compound giving dating advice to a fourteen year old girl—who was interested in _another_ girl—he would have laughed his ass off and asked what the hell they were serving in speakeasies these days. 

But here he is. It’s so weird it’s not even funny. 

Bucky clears his throat. He drops down onto the nearest bench and awkwardly pats the spot next to him. Cassie sits. 

“I uh…” his face is hot. Is he blushing? “I fell in love when I was a kid. I mean, I didn’t realise it for a long time, and it took even longer to make anything of it, but it was always there. Even when I wasn’t _me_ anymore, I could still remember Steve. Maybe not his name, maybe not our life, but little things. I could see him in my sleep. Sometimes I could smell him. It was like, uh—I lost the arm, you know, but I only ever had phantom pains for him.” 

He risks a glance and finds that Lang is grinning. “What?” he demands.

“Sorry, I just didn’t realise you were such a sap.”

“I’m not a—”

“I mean, you make such a big show of being an angry Russian robot—” 

“I’m old and tired of hiding who I am. Give me a break.”

Cassie bites her lip. “But you’re not, like, really old, are you? Like, biologically you’re probably still in your twenties, huh? Wow, that’s so weird to think about. Holy shit, I’m literally just realising how much of a culture shock you must’ve had—like, people _died_ for being like us when you were a kid and now it’s—I mean, homophobia is still a thing but it’s not _as bad_ and—I’m totally talking too much. Is the way I talk weird to you, too? What about the clothes I wear?”

Bucky finds himself laughing. “Get the hell outta here, kid.”

“No, seriously—”

“ _Lang,”_ Bucky stands. “You’re killing me. I gotta get back by eight to feed the dogs.”

“You have _dogs?!”_

* * *

“So I arranged a thing.”

“You arranged a thing?”

“Well, I arranged two things,” Pepper says, “one of which you’ll like less than the other.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Good thing first?”

She briefs him as they walk. More and more Peter’s been shadowing her as she conducts day-to-day business at SI. He’d done it a few times over the summer before the time heist purely because he had nothing else to do; it had been a casual, kind of fun thing then—a take your adoptive son to work day, if you will—but now their pace is rigorous. Pepper talks fast. She walks fast. Peter has a hard time keeping pace. 

“Charity gala,” Pepper says. “Late April.”

“So we’ve got, what, two months to make arrangements?” 

“About, but it’s a big one. I’m inviting all of our competitors to bid on a collection of art that I want you to curate for me. Can you do that?”

Peter shrugs. “What else would I do?”

“Oh, and a yacht, there has to be a yacht. Maybe a nice apartment too—penthouse, great view, roof access, designated garage spot. And if you could find a collection of high end jewelry—diamonds, emerald and sapphire pendants, but topaz and rubies would work too. A tiara—some men actually _like_ to please their wives—and don’t forget the random priceless artifacts for the guys with sticks up their asses: pipes, first edition literature from famous authors, silk handkerchiefs and ties worn by former presidents and royalty—god, look into that, too. Anything you can find that was worn by someone famous will get snatched up before they can say ‘going twice.’”

Peter nods. “Got it. Shareholders?”

“All in attendance, and their plus ones. Some of them might even bring older daughters or sons they have because they want to strengthen their connections with each other—”

“Jesus, what is this, the mafia?”

She gives him a dry look. “If you haven’t caught onto that by now, baby, you haven’t been paying enough attention.”

“Okay,” he says, slowly, as they slip into her office. Pepper sits at her desk. He takes one of the chairs opposite her. “And the other thing?”

“The other thing?”

“ _Pep.”_

She takes a deep breath. “I was contacted by the editor-in-chief of Times magazine—”

“Oh, no—”

“Stay with me,” she cuts back in. “He wanted to know about the likelihood of you sitting for an interview. He said you’d… well, he told me you’d made the top-priority list for being on the cover.”

Peter’s stomach turns. “You told him no, right?”

“I… no. Well, sort of. I might’ve made it worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it.”

He pinches his brow. “Okay. Tell me.”

“I asked him what he thought about getting both you _and_ Tony on the cover.”

Peter cracks an eye open. “You _didn’t.”_

“He just about shit his pants over the phone. Anyway, I was thinking—”

Peter knows where this is going. “Pepper…”

“I was _thinking_ that you might want to, um, disclose to the public that you and Tony are related.”

“No.”

“ _Peter,_ come on. Think about it: what’s the real harm? You’ve already been forced into the limelight. Beck ensured that when he outed you six years ago. This way we could finally be open about your role in SI and I could stop having to sue people left and right for insinuating that either you and I or you and Tony are having an affair with each other—”

“That’s a thing?”

She waves him off. “I just think it would be for the benefit of the family.”

Peter chews on that. He knows she’s right, but a part of him that’s always been sort of bitter about the fact that he was outed just doesn’t _want_ to give the public any more to work with. Why do they get to know all of his life’s secrets? What right do they have to peek inside his life any more than they already have? 

“What does dad think?”

Pepper taps her fingers on the desk. “I haven’t told him yet.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Okay, uh, when’s the interview thing?”

“April 21st.”

“Conveniently scheduled around the same time as the gala?”

She blushes. “I just—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Peter says, lips twitching. “Piquing interest before a charity event is a good strategy and there are a lot of people still in need. I’m with you on that. And I guess… if this is the way we do it, then this is the way we do it.”

“Really?”

She looks so happy there’s no way he could ever back out of it now. “Really,” he says, “as long as Tony is on board.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll handle him.”

* * *

It’s around mid-March when Ned finally bucks up the courage to visit the R&D department at SI. He and Peter have been texting on and off, but Peter’s just been so _busy_ lately that Ned figured, hey, why not take the time to visit _him_ instead? 

So he slinks off after school, praying his mom is working late enough tonight that she won’t notice he doesn’t come home on time, and obtains a shiny new guest pass at the front desk in the tower lobby. 

“Hello, Mr. Leeds,” greets FRIDAY. “Are you headed to Peter’s floor?”

“Uh, yes—yes, ma’am.”

The AI laughs. “There’s no need for such formalities, Mr. Leeds. Any friend of Peter’s is a friend of mine.”

“Uh, okay,” he bites his lip. “You can call me Ned, then.”

“Perfect. Here’s your stop, Ned.”

“Oh. Okay. That was like, hella quick.”

“The vigorous work pace of SI demands nothing less,” the AI reports, which makes sense. Ned finds himself ducking his head as he wanders the halls of Peter’s department. It’s not like he’s totally out of place or anything: most of the people here are college-age kids or only a little older. There are even a few teens hanging out and studying in the cafe area. 

Ned’s not really interested in that, though. He’d memorised the way to the lecture hall during the field trip and zooms there, choosing a seat in the back far out of sight. 

Peter is in the middle of a demonstration on the advances of skin grafting. Apparently he and Mr. Stark found a way to utilise nanotech with cellular activity, so now burns can be cured in like point eight seconds flat. He announces it so casually, like it’s not groundbreaking and totally awesome. 

About twenty minutes into the demo, however, someone drops into the seat beside Ned. 

It’s the obnoxious scent of Axe cologne that gives Flash away. 

“Dude,” Ned hisses, outraged, “ _what_ are you doing here?!”

Flash’s eyes widen. “Uh, I could ask _you_ the same question.”

“Watching the demo?!”

“Well—same,” Flash whisper-hisses. He glares. “Isn’t this kind of pathetic, Leeds? I mean, Parker’s totally moved onto bigger and better things and you’re _still_ chasing after him like a lost puppy?”

A year ago that would have really gotten to Ned, and it still stings because it’s totally true, but he’s so beyond done with Flash’s bullshit. He says, “And that’s not what you’re literally doing too?”

“Please,” Flash snorts. “Parker and I were never tight. It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s probably worse. At least he and I have history. You’re just a creepy stalker.”

Flash flushes. “Yeah? If you have so much history then why are you _also_ hiding all the way in the back row like a creepy stalker too?”

“So you _admit it.”_

“I didn’t admit—” he sighs. “Whatever dude. I just really wanna watch this demo, okay? It’s like super cool and really interesting and totally vital for me to know because I’m gonna be a badass doctor someday. What’s _your_ excuse?”

“I…” Ned can’t believe this. He really can’t. “Well, I’m also… sort of planning on being a doctor. So.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah?”

Flash squints at him. “A doctor for what?”

“...A neurologist?”

“Oh my god, same!”

Ned could vomit. He can’t believe he and Flash are on the same career trajectory. How absolutely disgusting is that? 

Flash’s outburst earns them a few dirty looks from the people nearby, so they both shut up after that. Ned quietly takes notes. After a while it’s hard not to notice how tired Peter looks: his face is kind of drawn, there are bags under his eyes, his shirt is actually buttoned wrong. All Ned wants to do is stay after and ask him whether or not he’s okay, but at this point he’s like ninety percent sure he would just get the same sad smile from Peter and an assurance that everything is fine. 

Adults aren’t exactly prone to unloading their baggage on kids, so. 

When it’s over, Ned is well hidden behind a wall of rising students packing away laptops and notebooks. Flash is quick about putting away his things and ducks out the nearest exit. Ned, to his consternation, follows. 

“What, are you stalking me too, now?” Flash shoots over his shoulder.

“Dude, trust me, you are like the absolute _last_ person I want to be around. I have zero interest in what you’re doing or where you’re going.”

To Ned’s surprise, Flash actually looks a little hurt. Whatever, it’s nothing compared to the things he used to say to both him and Peter. 

They get on the same elevator. This time, FRIDAY is silent, but Flash’s phone rings. It’s really quick—Ned only catches Flash’s half—but just like that he finds himself seeing Flash in a slightly different light. 

“And Mother won’t be there?” A pause. “Father either?” Another pause. “No. It’s fine. I just thought since it’s my birthday and all—nevermind, I have to go.”

The elevator doors open. 

Flash notices him staring. “What are you looking at?”

“Huh? Nothing. I just… uh, it’s your birthday?”

Flash straightens his spine. “Tomorrow.”

“Oh. And your mom and dad…?”

“They’re very busy,” Flash says, defensive and quick. “They don’t have time for superfluous things like birthday parties.”

Oh. _Oh._

“Not even when you were a kid?”

“No, not even—god, why am I telling you this?”

“Maybe because it’s been bottled up for so long that you’d rather tell your worst enemy than no one at all?”

Flash’s cheeks darken. Then he squints. “You’re not my _enemy._ That is so lame. You actually think I like, hate you or something?”

“Um,” Ned shifts. “Yeah?”

“I’m not actually being _serious_ —”

“So? It’s still mean. Half the shit that comes out of your mouth is totally jacked up, dude. It hurts my feelings. It used to hurt Peter’s, like, _way_ worse. Just because you don’t take it seriously doesn’t mean other people don’t.”

With that, Ned shoulders past Flash and hurries down the sidewalk. He feels good and bad at the same time. Like, finally telling Flash to his face what an ass he is? The stuff of dreams. But knowing what he deals with at home… sort of takes the joy out of it. 

“Wait! Leeds, hey, hold up!”

Ned’s eyes widen. He stops out of pure surprise and turns slowly as Flash catches up. 

“Uh, yeah?”

“You’re right,” Flash says. “I’m an asshole sometimes, I know that. But I…” he closes his eyes. “I don’t _want_ to be. I guess I just… growing up an only child without my parents around, I had a really hard time learning shit like how to be social and have manners. At least, that’s what my therapist says.”

“You have a therapist?!”

Flash’s eyes darken. “Yeah? So?”

“No, nothing, that’s—that’s great, actually. Good for you.” He gives a weak thumbs up. “Wish I could afford one, honestly.”

Flash’s face pinches. He takes a deep breath. “So anyway, I… I’m trying to do better. I know I’m bad at like, being a nice person, but…” another deep breath, “what would Peter Parker do, you know?”

Ned sputters. “Do you like, consciously ask yourself that?”

“Oh my god, dude, I’m _trying_ here.”

“No, okay, I’m sorry,” Ned clears his throat. “So what are you saying?”

Flash bites his lip. “Tomorrow is gonna suck just spending it all alone in my huge empty mansion. Do you maybe wanna come over and play video games or something?”

And Ned says yes, because he’s so shocked that no other words come out of his mouth. Flash nods, slaps him on the back, and hails a cab. 

Ned laughs the whole way home.

* * *

“I need you to come with me.”

Peter is on the floor of his office looking through photos of yachts. Nat is in the doorway, body tensed up. 

“Where to? Berlin?”

“Floor one-hundred.”

His stomach drops. “So he’s here?”

A nod. Peter gets up, grabs his jacket, and follows her out. They walk in silence to the conference room. Peter can see all of them through the glass-panelled walls: Rogers, Wilson, Maximoff, Barnes, his dad, Fury, Everett Ross, and most importantly—

The Secretary of State stands when Peter and Nat enter. He holds out his hand for Peter to shake. “Ah, Mr. Parker, we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Thaddeus Ross. Jesus, that’s quite the grip you’ve got.”

Peter nods. “Yeah well, y’know,” he shrugs. “Comes along with being bit by a radioactive spider.”

Ross’ laugh is entirely fake. He gestures for Peter to sit. Nat hovers in the corner like a sentry, clearly nervous though she’s trying her best not to show it. 

“Now, I think we can all remember how things went the last time around, which is why I’m particularly pleased to see you all here today. As per Mr. Stark’s repeated requests and cooperations, we’ve added a few amendments to the Accords that I think you, Captain, and your, uh, friends, will be more than glad to see.”

Maximoff leans forward. “The clause stating that I’m to be implanted with a tracker and monitored at all times? Has that been removed?”

“It’s been, uh, modified,” Peter’s dad says. He raps the table. “It’ll only be implanted in light of another Lagos.”

Wanda frowns. “Seriously?”

“Well hey,” Thaddeus fakes a smile, “if all goes as it should, you’ll never have to worry about it. Might as well not be there at all.”

Her face darkens. “So then remove it.”

“ _Wanda,_ ” Nat hisses warningly. 

Maximoff backs off, slouching in her seat. Steve takes the eyes off of her by saying, “I didn’t sign this document the first time around because I didn’t want to be made into a weapon. I’m all for fighting when it’s a cause I believe in, when it’s my _choice._ I don’t like the idea that I could be shipped off to carry out missions in the name of a faceless organization—”

“That’s all been removed,” Tony says. “You do what you want. I mean, within reason. If a mission happens to carry over into foreign territory, you contact their government first, get their permission, yada yada. But you won’t be made a, uh, device. You won’t be fighting anyone else’s war.”

“Okay,” Wilson says slowly. “I’m all for personal freedoms. That was a big beef of mine first time around too. But what about Barnes here?”

“Barnes has been cleared of all charges,” Everett Ross announces. “His case was reviewed by all necessary authorities and we’re now in the process of publicly clearing his name. Signing these,” he taps the Accords, “that’ll certainly help sway opinion.”

Bucky squints. “I don’t like how easy this is.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you ever hear the saying, ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’, Buck?”

“Yeah,” he says. “And I’m lookin’ at it anyway. Been kicked in the ass by too many horses as soon as I turn around, I guess.”

Wilson blinks. “I don’t even wanna understand the way your mind works.”

“You know what I mean though, right? I just get off, just like that?”

“Just like that,” Everett agrees.

“But—”

“Dude,” Wilson cuts in, “do you _want_ to get locked up in the Raft for the rest of your life?”

“ _No—_ ”

“Then shut the fuck up and sign the stupid papers.” 

Steve scratches his beard. He looks at Tony. “You still got that pen?”

Tony grins slowly. He pulls a leather box out of his breast pocket and pops it open. “Remember to cross your t’s, Rogers.”

But Peter isn’t satisfied. He bites the inside of his cheek before asking, “Let’s say during the Blip I happened to violate like, a lot of Accords.”

Thaddeus raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Peter looks down and starts flicking through them. “Entering international territory without clearance or forewarning; conducting illegal business in foreign countries; committing espionage; taking the life of an international citizen on foreign soil; meddling in foreign affairs and international investigations.” He clears his throat. “Hypothetically. What would that mean?”

If it were possible, Nat’s eyes could literally pierce his soul. He can feel the angry heat of her gaze, though he refuses to look at her.

“It would be dependent on your signature,” Thaddeus says. “You sign right here, right now, and any crimes you’ve committed might as well have not happened.”

“Even if evidence of those crimes happens to be discovered _after_ my signature?”

“As long as you sign.”

“Okay,” he taps the table, “and let’s say I was, hypothetically, retired and therefore abstaining from signing. If evidence of my crimes was discovered, I would face justice for them despite no longer being a part of the Avengers Initiative?”

Thaddeus squints. “I suppose so, yes.”

“Fantastic, all I wanted to know. Hey, completely off topic, has anybody asked Barton if he wants to sign?”

Nat is literally vibrating, but Peter can’t tell if it’s with anger or fear. “I haven’t asked yet,” she says tightly.

Peter picks up a pen and quickly scrawls his name. “Well you should probably get right on that, I mean, you never know when our favorite archer could come in handy.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Everett says. “Oh, Mr. Parker—one more thing: you wouldn’t happen to know the full identity of the vigilante known as Scorpio, would you?”

His jaw tightens. “Why would ground vigilantes need to sign? They don’t have the resources or motivation to conduct foreign affairs. They’re domestics.”

Everett shrugs. “You were a ground vigilante once. I hear during the Snap you pretty much ran things.”

“Wasn’t much to run,” Peter says. “And that’s also not true. We had… monthly board meetings.”

Wilson stifles a snort. 

“Besides, I don’t see why you would need to bother them unless they actually violated Accords. Ask me again if you happen to catch Scorpio working overseas.”

Thaddeus shrugs. “Sounds okay to me. We done? All wrapped up, everyone sign?”

There’s a collective, slightly miserable murmur of affirmation. Thaddeus collects the copies and stacks them into his briefcase. “Think I’m good here. Mr. Ross, anything to add?”

“No, no,” Everett smiles. “All good.” 

The two both leave. Once the door is shut, Nat rounds on Peter. “What the hell?”

“Oh, don’t be such a diva. I was just looking out for your good time buddy.”

Nat shakes her head. “Everything you listed, we did. And _worse._ ” 

“Well I signed, so we’re fine. Barton on the other hand…”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Yeah, you should, because if the shit he pulled in Cairo gets out I don’t think the guy’s gonna see the outside of a jail cell ever again.”

“We cleaned that up.”

“Maybe, but it’s not the only mess he made and we both know it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What about MJ?”

“Warehouse in Amsterdam blew up. Don’t see why there would be any evidence of what she did there,” he shrugs, “other than that, she’s clean. And this is absolutely the sort of bureaucratic bullshit she’d rather burn in a trashcan to warm up a hobo.”

Nat snorts a laugh. It makes him smile, and then Fury stands up and Peter remembers that oh yeah, they’re not the only two people in the room.

“As entertaining as it is to watch the both of you bicker like school children, I need to actually speak to you both. _In private._ ”

Tony leans forward. “Um, pardon, but fuck no.”

Fury gives him an unimpressed look. “All due respect Stark, but you were dead for a while. Means you missed the part where your kid became one of the deadliest assassins in the world under Romanoff’s tutelage. Let me conduct my business with the grown man, I’m sure he’ll fill you in on everything after anyway.”

Peter mouths _of course_ to his dad, who doesn’t look happy about it, but buttons his suit jacket and leaves with the others. 

Fury rounds the table to stand at the head. 

“London,” he says. 

“Which time?”

“Beck. You and I conducted some business. It’s my duty to inform you that the man you spoke to during that incident… was not actually me.”

Peter blinks. “Pardon?”

“It was an accomplice of mine. An alien shape shifter by the name of Talos.” 

“Oh, say no more, that makes total sense.”

Fury squints his one eye. “God, you really are your father’s son, aren’t you?”

Peter smiles. “Thanks.” 

“Wasn’t a compliment.” He sighs. “Anyway, I’ve had… significant time to think since I was revived and I believe… I believe that it’s time I step down as head of SHIELD.” He pauses. “Which _means,_ I’ll need one of you to take my place.”

Peter opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I’m sorry?” 

“You heard me.”

Natasha leans forward. “Fury, you’re not _that_ old. Surely you can still—”

“Oh, I can,” he agrees, “but this is a matter of _want._ I’m tired, Natasha. I _want_ to retire.” 

Peter blinks. “But… me? Seriously? I’m a candidate?” 

“If an alien with one brain cell could handle it during an apocalypse, I’m sure you could, Parker.”

“Oh wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Nat kicks him under the table. Fury notices. He leans his head back in exasperation. “Your collective age is truly five. I can’t believe it’s come down to this.”

“Well if you really can’t believe it, I can think of like a million different people more qualified than me,” Peter says.

“Parker, give yourself more credit,” Fury snaps. “You’re able to keep up with _Romanoff._ I just watched you conduct affairs with the Secretary of State _without_ pissing the man off. Do you have any idea what a _rarity_ that is?”

“I… okay, well now that you like, put it _that_ way—”

“What Peter is trying to say is that this is— _ridiculous,_ Fury. No one’s gonna do your job better than _you._ ”

“You did it,” Fury says plainly. “Talos stepped in at first but backed off when he made things worse. You—the _both_ of you—stepped up to the plate while I was gone and managed things. You got shit done. I’ve read the reports, I know exactly what went down. Don’t tell me I’m wrong here.”

Nat leans back with a frown. Peter barely knows what to think. Fury seems to sense their distress and his tone softens marginally. “You have a while to think it through. Whatever decision you make I’m sure will be the right one—hell, you could even do it together. I don’t _care._ Just… end of the year, I’m out.”

Nat meets Peter’s eyes. His chest feels like it’s full of helium. 

“Let me know,” Fury calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

“That was—” Peter blinks, “that was _real,_ right?”

“Very,” she says roughly. 

“Right,” he nods. “Okay, so, it’s you.”

“Peter—”

“No. Seriously. I’m not doing it. I de-nominate myself or whatever. It’s obviously gonna be you.”

She sighs. “It’s not that simple. This isn’t just a coin toss between me and you. There’s a—a council that’ll make the ultimate choice in the end. We’ve been forewarned because we’re the top two candidates for the job and Fury wants to give us the chance to prove ourselves and then some. I’m not… I’m not sure, but I think the Avengers themselves might even have a partial say.”

“Well you’ve got my vote.”

She smiles softly. “Well, I can’t vote for myself…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shrugs. “I’ll just majorly fuck up a few times and you’ll have it in the bag.”

Nat laughs. “God. If you’d told me even a year ago that I’d be here right now…”

“I mean,” he smiles, “we did it. We got everyone back. If we can do that, SHIELD’s gotta be a piece of cake.”

“So you won’t leave me hanging if I get it?”

“As long as you don’t leave _me_ hanging.” 

“Never,” Nat says. She stands, circles the table, and plants a kiss on his temple before walking out—probably to go track down Barton.

* * *

Tony is sitting at the baby grand when Peter walks into the penthouse. 

It’s jarring, the way that it’s changed. When Peter had come here for the first time as a fifteen year old kid, it had been sleek and modern, almost sterile. Now Morgan’s toys and books litter the surfaces, and Pepper’s left candles and blankets on a less ugly looking couch, and the bar cart is gone. 

Peter sits on the bench beside his dad. For a minute neither of them talk; Tony just keeps pressing soft notes into the ivory keys, fingers moving like he was born to the instrument. 

“So,” he finally says, pausing, “what did our favorite pirate want?”

“Uh, to give me his job,” Peter says. “Or Nat. One of us.”

Tony blinks. “Are you serious?”

“Would I joke about that?”

“Well if it _is_ a joke, I’m totally missing the punchline. God, that son of a bitch.” Tony’s hands fall. He faces Peter. “Cairo. Amsterdam. Where else have you been?”

“Lotta places,” Peter replies. 

“‘Taking the life of an international citizen on foreign soil’? What was that about?”

“Wow you really don’t miss a thing, huh?”

“Don’t be evasive.”

Peter closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about that. He’s _never_ wanted to talk about that. The only person who actually knows all of the details is Nat. 

But this is his dad, so he says, “It was a while ago. There was this guy who wanted to release a virus he’d made to kill off the survivors of the Snap. Didn’t like that Thanos had used half measures, I guess.”

“So you killed him?”

“No,” he shakes his head and presses a higher key. “No, that was Nat. I killed the guy who came out of nowhere about to kill _her._ ”

“Sounds like it was pretty justified.”

“Doesn’t mean I sleep easier at night.”

Tony puts a hand on his back. “Hey,” he says, softly, “look at me, kiddo.”

Peter looks. It’s easier than he expects it to be; and even easier when Tony touches their foreheads together. He never realises how much weight he’s carrying until he’s leaning against someone else, until they start to carry some of it for him. 

“You’re putting too much on yourself.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Tony leans back. “Spider-Man, R&D, the kids, shadowing Pepper—”

“I _know,_ ” Peter whispers. “But it’s not like I can do any less. Besides, I’m used to it.”

Tony’s shoulder’s fall as he heaves a sigh. “God. We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re so good at hiding it,” he elaborates. “How messed up all of this makes us. Let me tell you something: I spent my whole life waiting for someone to notice. I spent my whole life waiting for someone to care. Kid,” he reaches up and runs a hand through Peter’s hair, “ _I_ care. I’m right here. What do you need?”

Peter finds himself speechless. His eyes burn. He blinks rapidly, searching for words. 

“I need… I need you to help me find a cure for the mutation. In my genetic code, I mean. The one I might pass down to any kids I have.”

Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. Tony blinks. “Okay. I, uh, I’m not saying I’m not on board, but kid, last I checked you were pretty skilled in that area—”

“I know, yeah, I’m… proficient enough. But this _thing_ is different. It’s like it’s… embedded all throughout my genome. It’s more like a virus.”

“But it’s not hurting you?”

“Not that I know of,” Peter says, “but I have no idea how to get rid of it, and I don’t know if I even _could_ with my enhancements. It’s all… entangled. God, when I look at it a certain way it’s almost like my spidey mutations are _feeding_ off of my mom’s… whatever it is.”

“You think maybe that’s _why_ the bite didn’t kill you?”

He swallows. “Kind of. And the more I think about it, the more I’m worried I can’t have one without the other.”

Tony sighs. “Well. Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

“Something is up with you.”

Ariel jumps and rounds to find Gwen and Charlotte standing behind her. All around them students are talking and shuffling around in their lockers; it’s like two minutes until first period starts and odds are, they’ll be late like always. 

“Nothing is up with me.”

“ _Liar,”_ Charlotte says. “I live with you, dude. You were all fucked up about something last night. Don’t deny it.”

“Okay, so maybe something _is_ up,” Ariel snaps her locker shut, “but it’s none of your fuckin’ business and even if it was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t feel like talking about it.”

Gwen squints. “Is it because Cassie had to go back to California?”

_Yes,_ Ariel wants to say. “ _No.”_

“Because we’re all sad about that,” Charlie tells her as they walk. “Like, long distance sucks and I know you two are like…”

Ariel blushes. “We’re not!”

Charlie raises her hands in defense. “Okay, whatever. So it’s something else?”

“It’s that,” Ariel says, “and something else.”

Gwen and Charlie exchange an exasperated look. “She’s doing the thing,” Charlie says. 

“The thing where she pretends she doesn’t want us to know but expects us to miraculously guess and pouts until we do?” Gwen asks. “You mean that thing?” 

“I do _not_ do that.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “You so fucking do.” 

Ariel stops on a middle step and rounds on her friends. “I have biology. You have English. _Go away._ ”

“Incorrect,” Charlie says. “We have hookie and so do you.”

* * *

Ariel used to skip school all the time. But that was back in Rose Hill, where they had one classroom shared between all eight of the town’s kids and no AC. No one actually _cared_ about getting good grades or showing up. Ariel learned most everything she knows through the TV, books, Harley, and her mama. 

So it doesn’t actually occur to her to think twice about skipping a day at MidTown tech. She figures there are so many kids, the administration won’t even notice they’re gone. 

They have a good day for once: Charlie uses her savings to take them to Coney Island and they blow their allowances on theme park rides and stupid carnival games. Ariel forgets about school, forgets about Rose Hill, forgets about the blip. She even forgets, for a few hours, about her dad. 

And then they walk through the front door of the townhouse and find Peter, MJ, and Harley sitting in the living room waiting for them. 

MJ locks eyes with Charlie. She stands up. “Come with me.”

“But I—”

MJ points to the stairs. “Come. With. Me.”

Charlie swallows, looking sick. She miserably follows after her older sister. Everything is quiet for a minute. Then Gwen claps her hands. “Well, this was a riot. I’m gonna go back to the tower and be an orphan, okay? Have a good night—”

“Not so fast,” Peter snaps. “Sit down.”

Gwen groans. “You’re my _teacher,_ not my dad.”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s time for you to learn about how stupid and dangerous it can be to skip school.”

Gwen storms over and flops down into the big blue recliner; the one Ariel and Charlie curl up on during the weekend to watch _The Office_ on Netflix; the one Harley always stretches out on like a too-big cat to read a seedy paperback. 

Speaking of, her brother stands up. “Follow me.”

“Oh Jesus,” she drops her bag. “Not you, too.”

“Mama’s at work and I ain’t bothering her with this. She’s already stressed out enough as it is. Come on.”

Ariel drags her feet as she follows her brother to his room. It’s on the second floor, next to Mama’s. Ariel doesn’t really go in it much unless she wants to steal a book or a t-shirt. His bed is unmade and his desk is covered in mechanical parts and papers. The window is cracked so she can still hear the bustle of the city outside. 

Harley closes the door. 

“I’m not gonna lecture you.”

“Oh good, I was really starting to work up a sweat.”

He rolls his eyes and drops onto the bed, patting the space beside him. Ariel heaves a sigh just so he knows she doesn’t want to, but sits anyway. 

“I know this is all a lot. I know nothin’s really been stable since the Snap. You were just a kid when it happened. Now you’re in high school and you’re living in a big city when you grew up in a town with a population of five. I… I can’t imagine what all of this has been like for you. But Ariel, this is home now. This is our life and I really don’t wanna fuck it up, you know? I don’t want Mama dragging you back to Rose Hill because she doesn’t think this place is good for you—”

“She _wouldn’t,_ ” Ariel snaps. “She likes it here same as us.”

“Just because she likes it doesn’t mean she wouldn’t drop everything if somethin’ else was better for you.”

Ariel’s head hangs. Harley runs a hand through her hair. He was never like that before the Snap: never overly affectionate or considerate. In fact, he was a gigantic shit. But over the years this sort of easy feeling has developed between them, and now it’s not hard for her to wrap her arms around his stomach and curl into his side. 

“I saw daddy.”

He freezes. Stops breathing, even. 

“ _What?”_

“I was in the park walking Indy yesterday with Steve and Mattie, but then Steve went to go grab us a coffee and—he asked me if I’d be okay on my own for a couple of minutes and I said yes, because I’m tough shit, y’know, and I was just sittin’ there with the dogs doing my homework. But then the next thing I know he was right in front of me.”

“What did he say?”

“He said—he said he was sorry. He said he’d never been Snapped and he lost _everything_ during the blip—new wife, new baby. We have a _kid sibling._ God, I didn’t even ask if it was a boy or a girl, I was so pissed off. I said I didn’t care, but he kept trying to tell me that he’d gone back for us; he’d gone back to Rose Hill five years ago but we were already gone. He kept apologising over and over and saying he wanted to be part of our lives, sayin’ he wanted to be better, and I just…”

“What’d you do?”

“I ran. I took the dogs and I ran to Steve and I haven’t seen him since.”

Harley is quiet for a few minutes. Then he leans away. “Listen: you don’t tell Mama about this.”

“I _know,”_ Ariel snaps. “I’m not a fuckin’ dumbass.”

“I’m serious though. I’ll handle it. Just let me know if you see him again.”

Ariel nods. She feels suddenly, stupidly safe. “Okay.”

He kisses her forehead. “And don’t skip school, asshat. I would have given my left nut to be able to go to a place like MidTown when I was your age.”

* * *

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was _thinking_ that my friend was upset and I wanted to help her.”

“Okay,” MJ says. “And it didn’t occur to you to like, I don’t know, fucking let me know so maybe I could help? Make a day of it? No, instead you skip class and have me worried you’ve been like, kidnapped or some shit—”

“Oh my god, you are _so_ paranoid—”

“No!” MJ snaps, only it’s more like a sob. “No, I am _not_ paranoid. You were _gone,_ Charlie, do you understand? You may not remember it but _I do._ I lost you, okay? I can’t go through that again.”

Charlie blinks. It’s been a long time since she’s seen MJ this vulnerable. She stares at her sister for a long moment, standing on her knees between Charlie’s legs, tears on her cheeks, and suddenly it all just comes bubbling to the surface. 

“I miss her,” she whispers, and to her great horror she feels her own eyes start to burn.

“Yeah,” MJ puts her hands on Charlie’s face. “Yeah, I know, but baby, I swear to god, I’m here for you. We’re gonna get through this, okay?”

Charlie nods. “I know, and I know she was a total bitch to you, and I probably shouldn’t even—I just _do._ I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But she _left us,”_ Charlie argues. “She left me, Shelly.” Just then a horrifying thought occurs and she can’t swallow it back before blurting, “Did she even _want_ us?”

MJ’s face scrunches up. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

A beat, during which Charlie fights down her sobs. 

MJ pushes Charlie’s hair from her eyes. “I want you, Charlie. _I_ do. I know it’s not the same, but I need you to know that you’re not alone, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Charlie nods. Their foreheads touch and like when they were little, they twine their fingers together. It’s like Charlie is shedding a weight just then; she feels lighter, feels less like she’s drowning and more like she’s finally learned to swim. Sure, the rapids are still threatening to swallow her up whole, but she can tread water now. MJ is here to help her float.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“About what?”

Charlie squeezes MJ’s hand. “For everything.”

MJ doesn’t say anything. She just leans up and presses a kiss to the top of Charlie’s head. It’s the first time in her whole life anyone’s ever done that for her. 

* * *

“So,” Peter leans back. “Stacy.”

“Parker.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was bored,” Gwen says. “I didn’t feel like going to school. I don’t know. Why the hell does it matter?”

Peter squints at her. Then he says, “Listen, like you said, it’s really not my place to lecture you about this. If you had gone off and patrolled, that’s another thing, but… I just… I _do_ worry about you. You know that right? And if something is going on, you know you can tell me?”

Gwen hadn’t expected that. Sure, she and Peter, like, talk about stuff sometimes. He’s always really patient and understanding, and she knows he gets wigged out easy so she tries not to add to his gigantic pile of stressors. But he’s not her dad, or her brother. They aren’t really connected like Ariel and Harley or Charlie and MJ. 

So she asks, “Why? I mean—why do you care?”

“Stacy,” he sighs. Runs a hand down his face. “Gwen, I lost my parents too. I know how it feels to go from one person to the next. I just want to be someone solid for you to rely on, you know?”

Gwen’s chest tightens. She finds that she can’t look him in the eye. “Oh.”

He frowns. “ _Is_ there something?” 

Her face scrunches up. “Okay, if I tell you the something, you have to _promise_ not to freak out.”

“Yeah, okay, I promise.” He scoots closer. “What is it?”

She takes a deep breath. “You can’t send me back, either, got it?”

Realisation begins to dawn on his face. “Gwen…”

“My parents aren’t dead,” she blurts, and god it’s terrifying but also _so nice_ to finally tell someone, and she finds that once she starts she can’t stop. “They’re also, like, really terrible people, okay? Like, they used to hit me and they treated me like actual garbage and I just—I just met you, right? And I saw this way out and I thought, _I’d be so stupid not to take this_. And you were so nice and you made me feel safe and I just—I lied.”

Peter stares for a long minute, mouth parted slightly in shock. 

Then he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods. “We’ll handle it.”

Gwen can’t remember how to speak, but he keeps filling her silence up with more words. “You don’t ever have to be afraid to tell me things like that, Stacy. I’m serious.” 

“I _know,_ it’s just... sometimes even I don’t want to believe it. Sometimes it’s just easier to pretend they were normal people who died in a car crash or a plane crash or something.”

“I know.” Peter swallows. “Believe me, I know.”

She looks down at her lap. “I’m really sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for escaping a bad situation. You were smart. What you did was _brave,_ Gwendoline.”

There’s a funny flopping feeling in her chest, because no one _ever_ calls her Gwendoline. Not since her grandma who died when she was three—who was probably the only person on planet Earth who ever loved her. 

“You really think so?”

He smiles. “I know so.”

* * *

That night MJ rolls over to find Peter’s side of the bed empty. She stares for a minute, trying to decide whether or not to leave the warmth of the comforter. In the end her curiosity wins out. She throws one of his college sweaters over her head and stumbles out of their bedroom, wiping the sleep from her eyes. 

She finds him in the office. He’s on his computer, frowning at something on the screen. 

MJ yawns. She walks over and wraps her arms around him from behind, pressing warm, sleepy kisses to his cheek and neck. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Just, uh,” his head angles unconsciously to provide better access to his pulse point and his eyes flutter shut. “Stuff.”

MJ hums. She moves on to his lips. Kissing him always makes her feel lightheaded and heavy at the same time, like part of her wants to float up and the other just wants to sink down into his arms. 

“Come to bed,” she whispers. 

For a second he really looks like he wants to. His face is flushed, his pupils blown wide, and then—

“I, uh, can’t.” 

“ _Peter_ …”

“It’s—it’s important stuff. I’m really sorry I woke you up.”

“You didn’t,” MJ says. “You _not_ being there woke me up. I miss you.”

And she really, really does. She kind of aches with it. How absolutely terrible is it that she spends half her waking hours yearning for the apocalypse, because at least then when he was with her he was _with_ her; at least then he had time. 

Peter looks torn. She’s not about to torture him. “It’s okay,” she whispers. 

“You’re sure?”

_No,_ she wants to say, desperately. She wants to say, _you’re breaking my heart._

Slowly. Bit by bit. Every time he chooses something else over her.

But she says, “Yeah. Just, um, try to get some sleep at some point, okay?”

Peter nods. “Yeah. Promise.”

Another lie.

* * *

Morgan shifts for the fifth time in one minute.

“It’s okay if you don’t know the answer.”

“I _know_ it,” she snaps, and sticks her tongue out as she concentrates on the problem again. Peter waits patiently, either for her to get it or give up. He doesn’t mind. It’s a pretty advanced statistics problem, after all.

Morgan writes something. “Okay.”

Peter leans over. He grins. “That’s perfect, Mongoose.”

Morgan beams. She’s missing her two front teeth at the moment and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand, she looks adorable. On the other, she’s growing up way too fast. 

“Were you able to do that when you were my age?”

Peter bites his lip. “I don’t really know. I might’ve been if I’d gone to the same school as you, or if I had the same resources.”

Morgan climbs into his lap. She grabs his nose. “I miss when I was little.”

“You _are_ little, baby.”

“I mean _really_ little. I miss my old room and I miss when you lived with us. I miss when it was just you and me and Mommy.” She bites her lip. “Is that bad?”

Peter’s words die in his throat. Then he sighs. “No, it’s not bad. Sometimes I miss it, too.”

Morgan seems satisfied enough. She buried her face into the crook of his neck in a half-hug and then kisses his cheek. “Don’t be sad. Happy’s making _cheeseburgers_ for lunch!”

“Well,” Peter sets her down, “that just makes it all better, huh?”

“Of course, dummy!” 

* * *

“Okay, so here’s how this’ll work: we’ll separate the two of you and conduct a couple of serious interviews that’ll last about thirty minutes, and then bring you back together for something more light-hearted that should only take around half the time. We’ll try to squeeze in pictures while you’re talking and then work in the cover photo when it’s all done. I know you’re both very busy, so the whole thing shouldn’t take much more than an hour. Let us know if there are any questions you’d like to abstain from answering, or if there’s anything you accidentally say you’d like off-record. And again—thank you both _so_ much for doing this.”

Peter and Tony exchange a glance. Tony says, “Uh, yeah, sure. Sounds good.”

So they separate them; Peter is led to a little white room with stage lighting and a film camera. His interviewer, a guy who had introduced himself as Nick, asks, “Okay to record?”

Peter shrugs. “Yeah, why not.”

“Awesome. Okay. Go ahead and have a seat. There’s water on that table if you need it.”

Peter glances at the water but doesn’t take any. Then just like that, Nick starts to talk. “So this is all obviously really mind-blowing for a lot of people. I remember when I was growing up, Tony Stark was already a household name—only more so after his kidnapping, of course. So I guess I’ll start with what I think everyone wants to know, which is: how long have _you_ known that you’re his son?”

“Oh, um, not long.” Peter worries his thumb against his palm. “About six years now.”

“So since the Snap?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell me how it was that you found out?”

“Well my parents died when I was really young—that is, Richard and Mary Parker. Mary was my mom and I always _thought_ Richard was my dad. Anyway, I ended up living with my aunt and uncle. Then my uncle passed away and so it was just me and my aunt.”

“And then… Thanos?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “Then Thanos.”

“God, that is… the worst luck.”

Peter laughs a little. “Yeah, I used to call it ‘Parker Luck’.”

“So the Snap orphaned you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you were on another planet when it all happened, correct? I remember reading something about that a while ago.”

“Yeah, I was on Titan with Tony and a few others. One second we were all standing around trying to regroup and the next, they were just… Well, you know. But I found my way back home. Ended up at the Avengers Compound. That was where Pepper came in.”

“Pepper, as in the famous Pepper Potts?” 

“The very same.”

“She legally adopted you, correct?”

He nods. “She did.”

“And did that have anything to do with you being Tony’s son?”

“No, she didn’t… she didn’t know at the time. At least, I don’t think she did. I’m not exactly sure when she found out.”

“Let’s go back to that, because we totally went off on a tangent.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s me and my leading questions, don’t worry about it. So _you_ found out how?”

“There was a letter in my aunt’s belongings,” Peter says. “It was written by my mother. It explained everything.”

“And you just… believed it? Just like that?”

“Well… yeah. I didn’t see any reason she had to lie.”

“Sorry if this comes across as rude, but you _have_ tested your DNA, correct?”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, actually, FRIDAY—Tony’s AI—she tested me years ago on her own. I’m definitely Tony’s son.”

Nick nods. “So you get back from space only to find that your aunt is gone and your whole life is one big lie. Tony Stark’s fiancé adopts you. That must have been _insane.”_

“It was, yeah, but at the same time… I don’t know. Pepper has this way of making everything feel like home, you know? And I don’t know, I think we just needed each other. I can never express my gratitude toward her. She’s—I mean, she’s my mom, you know?”

Nick smiles. “And Tony? I assume he wasn’t aware of your existence?”

“ _Well,_ no. Not in the capacity of being his son, anyway. It’s actually really strange. He found me through a YouTube video and recruited me in my tiny Queens apartment, dragged me to Germany, and I just sort of attached myself to him like an annoying little leech.”

“Not literally, I assume.”

Peter laughs. “No, not literally.”

“But you _could.”_

“Technically, yeah.”

“So he found out after he was revived?”

“Right.”

“What was telling him like? Were you scared?”

“I actually… didn’t tell him.” Peter blinks. Smiles. “FRIDAY kind of did all the work for me. She got fed up with us being stubborn dumbasses I guess. There was this whole incident where I almost died—I’m totally fine now, though—but the next thing I know I’m waking up in a hospital bed in the Tower’s Medbay and he just… he just knew.”

“God. That’s insane.”

“Yeah, but also… I mean, it sounds weird, but even before it was true, it was true, you know? He was already a father figure to me. Him turning out to be my actual dad just sort of legitimised what I was already feeling.”

Nick nods. He flips through the notebook in his hands. “Okay, so I have to ask, because this is the first time you’ve ever done an interview since you were outed by Beck—but what the _hell_ happened there? What was it like being an anonymous teenager one day and Spider-Man the next?”

“Oh, uh—kind of awful. I mean, it was never what I had planned. Before the Snap Tony had actually offered to make me an official member of the Avengers. There was this whole press conference and everything—you know the one where he and Pepper announced their engagement? Yeah, that was actually supposed to be for me. But I backed out. I just wanted to lay low for a while, you know? Stay on the ground looking out for the little guy. It was my whole shtick. Then the next thing I know I’m getting stopped for selfies in the street and my business is everyone’s business. I was really fucking uncomfortable for a long time—pardon my French.”

“I can only imagine. Living your life in the public eye… yeesh. I definitely prefer to spend my life on _this_ side of the camera.” Nick clears his throat. “I think everyone has always been pretty curious about you. No one knew that much, you know? Then Pepper Potts swoops in to defend you, it leaks that she’s your adopted mother, and then you have the paps tailing you everywhere you go.”

“Oh my god, don’t get me started on paparazzi.”

“I’ve heard it’s actually kind of difficult to get a shot of you.”

“Well I have this—it’s like a sixth sense sort of thing where I can tell if I’m in danger, or if someone else is, or if I’m being followed, that sort of thing. So if I’m being tailed I kind of just… swing away.”

Nick laughs. “That’s awesome. One more thing, I just have to ask: that tattoo?”

Peter glances down. He hadn’t realised his sleeves were rolled up enough to expose it. “Oh, right. Well I assume you’ve heard of the Black Widow?”

“I think the only people who haven’t are living under rocks. What’s the story there?”

“Well she and I… she’s my best friend. I have absolutely no idea what else to say. We were both knocked down pretty hard after Thanos. Bruised egos, heightened senses of paranoia. We kind of fed into each other’s obsession to keep everyone that had survived safe. It was like—five years of nonstop, rigorous work. Mission after mission. Training multiple times a week. She’s saved my life more times than I can count.”

“Wow. So you two are like, Spider Buddies?”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, definitely. And drinking buddies.”

“God. Awesome. I really can’t thank you enough for sitting down with me, it was such a pleasure and I’m a huge fan.”

“Hey, no problem.”

* * *

“Mr. Stark,” his interviewer, a short blonde woman, smiles pleasantly from her seat opposite him. “I’m Angelika Hughes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, please, the pleasure’s all mine.”

She clicks her pen. “I know we’re on a really tight time constraint, so I’ll just ask a few key questions here—the first one being: what was it like to find out that the kid you’d taken under your wing was actually your biological son?”

“Well, I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty shocked. I mean, it’s not the biggest surprise in the whole world—me having a secret kid, I mean—we’re all aware that I was kind of a playboy when I was younger. I’d been approached all through my twenties with women who claimed to be pregnant with my kid—all claims which turned out to be false, mind you. Suffice to say I wasn’t new to that particular brand of heart palpitations.”

Angelika raises an eyebrow. “So you were afraid?”

“Oh, terrified. See the thing that you have to understand about Peter is, he’s better than I ever will be. Smarter, absolutely. Stronger, no doubt about it. But what’s really special about him is this inherent _goodness,_ the need to always do the right thing no matter the consequences. I was never like that. My moral compass always had kind of a screw loose, you know? Anyway, yeah, I was scared. I didn’t want to, uh, mess him up, if you will. Didn’t want to unscrew his screw.”

Angelika bites back a grin. “They say bonding can happen between a parent and child at any point in their life. Was it easy?”

“Oh, fuck, yeah. This is gonna sound so lame and dorky of me, but that kid is my best friend. I mean, tied with my other very wonderful best friends but—no, that’s a lie, Pete takes the cake. Even before I found out, we just… connected. I was—for a long time, like I said, I was afraid. Didn’t wanna overstep, didn’t wanna… repeat history, I guess. But he has this way of growing on you like an annoying little fungus, you know? Before I knew it he was sitting on the floor of my lab with me, outsmarting me left and right and ordering pizzas with my AI.”

“So you bonded even before the snap?”

“That’s correct. I met him when he was around fourteen.”

“Wow. That’s some crazy coincidence.”

“Don’t get me started.” He bites his lip. “God, sometimes I think about that, you know? All the years I missed. The time I actually _had_ with him where I kept a distance. It drives me crazy. Keeps me up at night.”

“Do you think you make the most of your time with him now?”

“I do my best.” He pauses. “I could do better. We’ve both very, very busy. My darling wife ensures that. There’s not much time for Scrabble on Friday nights, you know? But there’s no wall up anymore. He’s my kid and I love him more than anything.”

Angelika nods, smiling softly. “Do you think that there’s a possibility of more children between you and Mrs. Stark?”

Tony barks a laugh. “I’d like to abstain from answering, Ms. Hughes. Oh, and it’s still Ms. Potts. She’d kill me if I didn’t correct you.”

Angelika makes a note of that. “What do you think of Peter being Spider-Man?”

“Well, it’s, uh… complicated. I admire him for it. I think he does it from this genuine place of wanting to help. There’s no agenda there, nothing between the lines. He just wants to make the world a better, safer place to live in. But it scares the absolute shit outta me sometimes, so y’know. Definitely a cocktail of mixed feelings on that front.”

“Do you regret that you weren’t there for him when he was outed to the public?”

Tony chews on that for a minute. “I, uh. Yeah, of course. I regret every day that I missed.”

“And what was it like to wake up one day and find that he’d aged so significantly? It’s an emotion so many other parents have experienced—I’ve heard it described as grieving the child they were but being excited to learn more about who they’ve become. Does that sort of sum it up?”

“In a way. I think I was just in shock. It was the wake of a big battle and it was hard to process—he was the one who defeated Thanos and it, uh, it almost killed him. I was more concerned with him living than anything else.”

“That must have been awful.”

“Yeah, awful’s kind of an understatement.” 

“If you could’ve done it instead, would you have?”

“Absolutely. No question about it. I would rather have died than know he suffered the way that he did. I mean, he made it through okay, but God it was really touch and go for a while there.”

Angelika nods. “I think it’s a debt that can never be repaid. Everyone, everywhere, owes him. There are people that would die for him, people that compare him to Jesus Christ. What’s _that_ like?”

“Fucking weird,” Tony says, laughing. “I don’t really think he likes it. I think he did it for himself as much as he did it for everyone else. If it were me, I’d much rather see everyone else just move on and forget my name. Already famous enough, thanks.”

“Do you wish you weren’t?”

“What?”

“Famous,” Angelika elaborates. “I know you were sort of born into it. You embraced it readily until your teens—”

“Oh, no, there was no readiness about it. That was just, you know, ‘sit in front of the camera and hold still or get a black eye when you get home’. It was constant pressure. I had to be the best and then be better at every turn. I could never please my own father.”

Angelika looks shaken. “God, I never knew. Everyone talks about your father like he’s a hero. Even you—in the past, at your Expos—”

“Yeah, I know. Guess it just takes being a good father to really know when you’ve had a bad one. But he was a hero. Without him we wouldn’t have our dearest darling Steven Grant Rogers.”

Angelika grins. “So is that all patched up?”

“Oh, what, that little spat? Please. Nothing could get between me and Mr. Rogers. Have you seen that ass?”

She laughs. “I think that’s all the time we have. Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Hey, thank _you.”_

* * *

“Dad.”

“Son.”

They shake hands and sit on the bar stools situated in the middle of a white backdrop. Everyone behind the camera laughs. 

“ _Okay, action!”_

“Alright, we’re gonna do a round of rapid-fire questions for you guys. You both have to answer at the same time and if you both say the same thing, you win a point. Pretty straightforward?”

“Absolutely,” they say together.

“Perfect. Number one: what would you say is your biggest similarity?”

“Sarcasm.” 

A laugh from the interviewer. “One point. Number two: shared pet peeve?”

“When people hand me things.”

“When people put an empty carton of milk back in the fridge to ‘remind you to pick some up’.”

Tony laughs. “That happens to you?”

“All the time.”

“Alright, still at one point there. What about favorite movie?”

“Star Wars,” Peter says. 

“See, no, I love a good romcom. Sleepless in Seattle, maybe.”

“And that’s why you suck,” Peter deadpans, earning more laughter. 

“Favorite color?”

“Red.”

“Ooo, two points. Favorite pastime?”

“Fixing cars.”

“Photography.”

“Least favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Mint.”

“Wait,” the interviewer looks up from their paper, “you guys don’t like mint? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Peter’s face scrunches up. “Why would I eat mint ice cream when I could just swallow an entire tube of toothpaste and get the same result?”

Tony nods. “Exactly. Disgusting.”

“God. Harsh. Pineapple on pizza?”

“Fuck no.”

“Wow, picky eaters. Alright, we’re up to four. Let’s try to go for one more. Who, in your opinion, is the coolest avenger?”

“Bruce Banner.”

“ _Awwww!”_

* * *

Ned Leeds is sitting on the floor of Flash Thompson’s bedroom reading a comic book when, from the hallway, Flash shouts, “HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”

Ned looks up so quickly his neck cracks. “Dude, what?!”

“Oh my god,” Flash bursts into the room. “Oh my _god._ Ned, man, I can’t—I can’t even say it—”

“What?! Are aliens attacking? Is Thanos back?!” He scrambles to check his phone and scans the top notification. After reading it, his phone falls to the floor. 

“What… _what?”_

“I know.”

“He’s—”

“Yeah.”

“This whole time he was—?”

“ _Yes,”_ Flash says, “and dude, they did interviews. There are videos _of_ the interviews. A photo shoot. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before because like, looking at them side by side now that I _know,_ they look, like, _exactly_ the same.”

Ned opens his mouth and closes it again. Eventually he whispers the only thing he can: 

“What the _fuck.”_

* * *

“Hey, do you have time to talk?”

It’s a few seconds before she gets a reply of: “Uh, not a whole lot. The gala’s tomorrow night so I’m overseeing setup right now.”

MJ’s nails dig into her palm. “Yeah? Are you gonna be able to come home tonight?”

“I—I actually don’t know. I’ll do my best, but—”

“You know, I leave the empty carton of milk in the fridge,” she finds herself saying, more viciously than she ever intended. 

There’s a pause. 

“MJ, I—”

“I don’t even care if it’s a stupid thing to get upset about. At least maybe then you’ll talk to me, right? Just long enough to let me know you’re still interested before you disappear again? Yeah, great thing we have going here. You ask for weeks on this baby thing, I give you months. I don’t ask questions. You keep pulling away and I’m so, so fucking stupid, huh? I really am. God. I have to go.”

She presses ‘end call’ before he can even reply, and for a long time she just stares at the wall in her office. 

And if he had the time, if he hadn’t been immediately pulled away by something else, he would have run down there. He would have burst into the little room with the low couch and the grey chairs, and he would have explained everything. 

But he is pulled away, and he doesn’t run down there. 

* * *

Through an ocean of fine silk suits and gowns, Natasha slinks up to Peter. She’s wearing something black and shimmery and sipping from a flute of champagne. “Well don’t you look like you’d rather jump off this roof than be on it.”

Peter glances over the railing just to humor her. “I could probably swing that.” 

“Bad morning?” 

“Bad year,” he corrects. “Bad decade, actually. What about you?”

Nat mirrors his position, not at all bothered by their height. It’s little things like that which remind him of how reckless she can be. Him, if he fell, he could probably just stick to the side. Her, on the other hand… Peter is snapped out of his paranoid, over-protective musings when she asks, “What _about_ me?” 

He shrugs. “Barton?”

Nat’s face turns grim. “I went down there on Sunday. He wasn’t exactly pleased to see me at first—something about how my visits always coincide with almost getting killed—”

“Wonder where he got that idea.”

“Shut up. Anyway, it took some convincing but I got him to sign.”

Peter hums. “But he’s still out, right?”

Her mouth twists. “He says so, but I don’t know how well he can be believed. This is his third attempt at retirement, after all.”

“Well you know what they say,” he shrugs, “third time’s the charm.”

“That expression usually applies to matters of less significance,” Nat points out. “Besides, we both know nothing could stop him in the event of another attack. Better to be safe than sorry. Speaking of: are you still losing sleep agonising over pointless preventative measures?”

“How the hell do you know about those?” 

“I have my ways.”

“Oh, so that was _you_ hiding under my bed last week.”

Nat laughs. Then her eyes narrow. “You know sometimes it still pisses me off.”

“What does?”

“Just that it took me so long to see it. It took you _telling me_ to see it. It’s just… so obvious.”

Peter nods. He takes a drink and scans the crowd of party attendants. His attempt at mingling with them hadn’t gone very well; he’d only managed to endure about forty minutes of probing questions and handshakes and looks of adoration before he had to skirt off toward the outer ring of the rooftop venue. It’ll never _not_ be uncomfortable, and now it’s worse because everyone _knows_ and they’re all analyzing him the same way Nat is, trying to find similarities between him and Tony. 

Nat puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. You good?”

“Hmm?”

He’s decidedly not good. Everyone knows that. He supposed they’re just humouring him until the inevitable breakdown. 

“Peter,” she takes a step closer, “you didn’t want to go to the press, did you?”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does—”

“Going to them is better than them coming to you,” he says. “If it’s your decision, on your terf, you get to tell everything exactly the way that you want. Otherwise it’s just… paps hiding in bushes to sell pictures to tabloids so they can speculate and start rumours.”

“You sound pretty bitter.”

“Well I didn’t want this,” he says, face twisted. “I never wanted it. Didn’t have a choice to air out my laundry like you and Tony, you know? I mean, _your_ circumstances weren’t exactly ideal either, but in the end it was still your decision. Not me. I was framed as the villain and I’ve spent years just trying to… prove myself. To the public, to you, to my father.”

He turns around to glare at the skyline instead. Nat does the same, resting her elbows against the rail. 

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“Maybe not anymore,” he concedes. “But before? You can’t tell me we’d be having this type of conversation even a year after the Snap.”

She shrugs. “We evolved.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m regressing?” He asks her, finally meeting her eyes, startled by how sad she looks. It’s strange, because his smile has the same pathetic flavour. 

Then her expression changes; she has an idea. A little smirk forms. “You know there’s one other person at this stupid party who’s still trying to prove he’s not the bad guy. I bet you two would have a lot to talk about.”

* * *

“Barnes.”

Bucky looks up and finds Tony Stark standing in front of him in a perfectly tailored suit, not a hair out of place. His eyes rove over Bucky. “Well don’t you clean up nice.”

Bucky pulls at the cuffs of his own jacket anxiously. Natasha had brought a few for him. He’d gone with the darkest option. The black silk shirt is probably the softest thing he’s worn in years. It’s strange; he’d forgotten how good he was at primping himself up. All at once the hours of standing in front of that chipped mirror in his and Steve’s old apartment had come flooding back, and he’d even taken the effort to visit a barber. His hair is cropped closer now and about as neat as Stark’s. 

“I can tell I’m causing you visible discomfort,” Tony says, “and as amusing as it is, I was wondering where your, um, other half had wandered off to?”

Bucky, to his mortal embarrassment, feels his face heat up. “He said something about a drink.”

“A drink,” Tony repeats slowly. “There’s alcohol all around us. All you have to do is reach out and—”

He demonstrates. A server stops, holding a tray of drinks for Stark to choose from. He grabs a whiskey with a smooth thanks and downs it in one go. 

“He went downstairs,” Bucky amends. “Doesn’t like crowds.”

“But you stayed?”

“I used to be the more sociable of the two of us,” Bucky says, which earns a raised eyebrow. “Not so much anymore. But I like to watch.”

“Out of context that would be… _so_ creepy. With, it’s just sad.” Stark pats his flesh arm. “I’m gonna go track down Captain Idiot. Why don’t you see if Romanoff wants to dance?”

“Natasha?”

“Oh, I distracted you from noticing her laser eyes.” Tony jerks his head to the left. Bucky looks and of course there she is, very pointedly _not_ staring. “Is that a Russian thing?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Bye bye.”

* * *

Steve hears him coming before he sees him.

He’s about half way into a decanter of scotch that’s so old and marbled it’s actually worth drinking just on taste alone. Tony doesn’t say anything for a second, just sort of hovers there, hesitating. 

Then his hands slide into his pockets. He steps down into the penthouse slowly. “So I realise we never really… talked.”

“No,” Steve agrees. 

“I wanted to thank you for signing.”

“That’s not…” Steve sighs. “You don’t need to thank me. I should’ve just worked with you the first time around to change the clauses I didn’t like.”

“Well, yeah,” Tony agrees, “but also, you were right to have concerns. To be suspicious. We both know that Ross has his own agenda when it comes to the Accords.”

Steve nods. “Yeah. We do.”

Tony takes a seat beside him. “Fork it over,” he says of the scotch, and then, “this belonged to my dad. He used to keep it in the back of this little wooden liquor case in his office. Never saw him drink any. You wanna know what special occasion he was saving it for?”

“What special occasion?”

“For when he found _you.”_

Steve blinks. He’s not exactly sure what to say to that, other than, “I read the article.”

A hum. “Cute, huh?”

“If that’s what you wanna call casually admitting to being abused as a child, then sure.”

“Ooo, sassy tonight are we?”

“ _Tony,”_ Steve says softly, “don’t deflect.”

“Sorry. Old habits die hard and all that.” He takes a drink and closes his eyes to savour it. “Yeah. So. Bad childhood. I _wanted_ to do better for Peter, before I realised I’d done even worse by missing the whole thing.”

“You’ve still got Morgan.”

“Morgan,” Tony repeats with a nod. “Yeah. Missed the first four years of her life, too. And I mean, you know, we’re working through it, but there’s uh… there’s this _wall_ that’s not there between her and Pepper—or even between her and Peter—and I don’t know if that’s a sibling thing or if it’s because my kid essentially helped raise my other kid while I was _dust,_ but it is what it is.”

Steve stares. “You’re doing the best that you can.”

“Not enough.” He shakes his head. Meets Steve’s eyes. “It’s not enough.”

“So do better.”

And he doesn’t expect the words to do anything but piss Tony off; instead, his spine straightens, his shoulders roll back. His face sets with determination. Tony knocks back the rest of his drink and then says, “I’m sorry. For not giving Barnes the benefit of the doubt to start with, I mean. I should’ve known that if you… I just worried you were thinking with your heart instead of your head.”

Steve shrugs. “I was. Always do. And if anyone should apologise, it’s me. I didn’t tell you about your parents even when I suspected…”

“You were protecting him.”

“Or maybe myself,” Steve says, because he’d thought about it a lot while Bucky was in Wakanda. “Maybe I just didn’t want to believe that someone I loved could do that.”

“Well, he didn’t.”

“No,” Steve agrees. “But I’m still sorry.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “How about we both agree to stop apologising to each other and just get back to the regularly scheduled passive aggression?”

Steve laughs. “Sure, why not.”

* * *

“Keener needs to work on her hand-eye coordination,” Bucky is reporting. “Charlie needs to build muscle mass. Gwen is too overconfident. She needs to start fighting someone that can actually challenge her.”

Peter nods. “I know. I’ve been meaning to talk to Miles’ uncle. If I can get him to agree to letting Miles stay at the compound over the weekend, they can train with each other. They’re the ones with the powers, they need the most…”

He trails off. 

Suddenly, it’s impossible to speak, because there’s MJ in this really fucking drop-dead gorgeous dress, staring at him with Murder Eyes, and he would probably be turned on if he weren’t so fearful for his life.

Nat snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Hey, what—?”

But she’s already followed his line of sight and seen MJ. Bucky looks, too, and grunts. “She looks pissed.”

“Yeah, you could say that. I have to go, uh,” he clears his throat, “hide. Bye.”

* * *

Pepper’s head is pounding.

She hasn’t even had anything to drink. She’s just fucking _exhausted;_ mentally, physically, and on every other level that a human being can feel tired. 

Needless to say, she’s more than grateful when May Parker pulls her away from a few benefactors and hides her from view. 

“How are you feeling?”

Pepper squirms in her dress. “Like I just spent the last three hours schmoozing with misogynistic old men so that they would actually consider donating money to people in need for once.”

May laughs. “Wanna blow this pop stand? Go see your kid?”

“ _God,_ yes.”

* * *

Two hours later and the bidding finally concludes, the caterers end up running out of food, and SI raises over twenty million dollars in donations. 

Peter and MJ enter their house in a flurry of rage and movement. 

MJ tosses her purse somewhere. “What I don’t understand is why you had to avoid me the whole fucking night—”

“I just figured you’d want space—”

“Oh, yeah, like the two months we’ve spent basically not talking weren’t _enough.”_

He’s ripping his jacket off when he says, “I just didn’t wanna make things more awkward.”

“Awkward?!” MJ slams an earring down and rounds on him. “Awkward for us or awkward for Pepper? Like I’d make some big fucking fuss?”

Peter blinks. “I mean…”

“I mean _in_ _public!_ ” 

“I was just trying to be respectful, keep my distance, let you cool off. If you wanna talk, we can talk.”

“What’s to talk about?”

“Fucking anything? I don’t know! Whatever you want! I mean, you’re clearly pissed off, and I get it, I do, but—” 

“But _what?_ What do you _want_ me to say, Peter?! You’re keeping secrets from me, you lie to me, you run off with Nat at the drop of a hat, and I’ve become like—this person that just waits for you! I’m just—I’m in the background, just secondary to everything else! You say you wanna have a kid with me but I swear to God sometimes it feels like you—like you just want the kid and not me.”

They both stop. MJ’s chest is heaving. Her eyes are full of tears. 

Peter forgets to breathe for a second too long and has to force air back into his lungs. His ears are ringing. He grips the wall. 

“Is that really how you feel?”

“How I feel? Like it isn’t just, like, a fact?”

“MJ—”

“No, seriously,” she steps forward, “five fucking years you lied to everyone about Tony being your real father. I didn’t say anything because you were all fucked up about it and I didn’t wanna make it all worse for you. _Five fucking years._ From me, from Pepper, from Natasha—”

Peter opens his mouth to say something and then stops. 

To his surprise, MJ barks a laugh. “No, not Natasha. Of course she knew. Of fucking _course._ Because you can tell _her_ anything! She’s got the stomach for it, right?”

“So what, you’re jealous of my sister now?”

“I’m not—” MJ cuts herself off. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m _not._ Jealous. I’m pissed off. This isn’t some skewed perspective thing. It is a _fact_ that you have always prioritised what she needs over our relationship. It’s a _fact_ that you put her first and clued her in on shit you _never_ told me. I’m _continuously_ blindsided because you don’t—God, you don’t trust me. You asked me to trust _you_ but you don’t trust _me._ ”

“Okay, okay,” Peter shakes his head, feeling his face heat up, “well how about the fact that you make it fucking _impossible_ to tell you anything?! You’re so emotionally closed off it’s like I have to fucking tiptoe around you all the time! I don’t know what might set you off and what won’t—”

“Oh, that is _bullshit—_ ”

“You think I don’t _try_ to tell you—?”

“Do _not_ put this on me!”

His whole body feels hot. He can’t remember the last time he was this angry, this frustrated. “I’m not _putting_ it on you, I’m explaining my side—”

“And you’re side is what, that I’m an unapproachable cold hearted bitch?”

“I didn’t find out we were having a baby until the day that she died!” He bursts, completely unrelated to her last words. He isn’t even sure he heard them. He hits the wall as he yells and she flinches. 

And it’s like something breaks. The air is suspended, and between them, there is an abrupt severing. MJ takes a step back, blinking dazedly. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I’m so, _so_ sorry—”

“I _knew it,_ ” she hisses. “I fucking knew it. I knew that this would… I _knew_ that you were gonna use her against me—”

He steps forward. “I’m not trying to use her against you, I’m just trying to tell you that I’m—I’m _still_ fucked up about it—”

“You should go,” she whispers, and she can’t even look at him. She’s shaking. All he wants to do is go to her but he knows that would only make it worse. There’s so much space between them; it’s only ten feet but it might as well be the fucking Grand Canyon. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I don’t care.”

“Please, just—”

“Peter, I swear to god.” 

He runs a hand down his face, exhausted. “I… okay. Yeah. I’ll go.”

And maybe that’s worse. Maybe he should have said something else. Maybe he should be trying to stay and fight. 

MJ shakes her head. The tears are on her cheeks now. She has to grip the doorway as she passes from the kitchen to the hallway. 

He follows. “MJ—”

“No, um,” another shake of the head, a raised hand. “I love you. But I can’t… I want you to go and I don’t… I really don’t know if you should come back.”

And Peter can’t just accept that. He can’t just stop loving her. But he’s not gonna make it any worse, so he goes with it—as if he could do anything else, as if he’s even inside his own body right now. 

“I’m gonna—” he sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m gonna go get some of my things.”

MJ nods. “Okay,” she says quickly, in a small, strained voice. 

On his way up the stairs he hears a sharp, barely stifled sob. All he wants to do is turn back around, but his body won’t cooperate. His legs move of their own accord. He loses time: doesn’t remember grabbing the duffel from the closet and stuffing it with with clothes, doesn’t remember coming back down the stairs again after softly closing their bedroom door, after taking a last long look at their bedroom. 

MJ is waiting in the foyer. She looks like she wants to collapse. He knows, even as he approaches her, that neither of them want this. Inside they’re both screaming their protest, but he still grabs his keys from the peg on the wall and clears his throat and says, “I think I’m gonna go to May’s. Just—in case you need me.”

“Right.” She sniffs. “Yeah, okay.”

“MJ—”

“ _Peter.”_ It’s practically a sob. She covers her mouth with her hand. “God. Fuck. Just—”

“I’m going,” he whispers. The door is open. The cool night air is like a slap against the left side of his face. 

He is going to go, because she could rip his heart out, she could shred it to pieces; she could say whatever she wanted, hurt him however much she wanted; she could shun him or hate him or try to fucking murder him and he knows, he _knows,_ that he will still love her. It doesn’t matter. He’ll leave. He’ll go. He’ll do anything. He’ll die for her if she wants. Whatever she wants. 

He wants to say that. He wants to say it so fucking badly, and he wants to say he’s sorry, and that she’s right. 

But the words die in his throat. Peter chokes on them. He leaves and the door shuts and locks behind him, and it will be six months before he sees her again. 

* * *

They’re curled up on the loveseat by the window when Natasha Romanoff slinks out of the shadowed hallway to reveal herself.

It’s been a little bit since May dragged Pepper away from a party she had no idea why she was attending; May isn’t exactly well-off, after all, so it’s not like she could contribute. She also couldn’t _charm_ anyone seeing as she’d just gotten off a forty hour shift at the maternity ward and had barely managed to get a shower in before fashionably late turned into just _late._

But Happy hadn’t minded sitting around reading in her living room, and they’d made good time. 

Now she and Pepper are half a bottle of wine deep into a conversation about anything and everything. Between her and Pepper, nothing is off the table—but it’s hard to find time to talk like this, or at all, with everything going on. 

Needless to say with Morgan asleep (and Tony’s frantic worries that his wife had been kidnapped satiated with an amusing phone call), May is relaxed. She’s sunk deep into the couch cushions, her heels have been thrown off, and there’s a serious risk of her losing her grip on her wine glass as Pepper rants about how much Peter is overworking himself—something they can both agree on.

That’s when the Black Widow herself steps into view. 

“What the—oh, shit—”

There is wine _everywhere._ It’s on the couch cushions, it’s on the dress that she’d saved up for weeks to buy because she _refuses_ to accept any more help from Pepper; it’s on _Pepper’s_ dress—

“Sorry,” Romanoff says, face tinged with amusement. “I was trying to be obvious. Too many stealth missions, I guess.”

“How did you even get in here?!” May demands. 

“Fire escape.”

Pepper waves off May’s attentions. “Don’t worry, it’s fine, I have a hundred more just like it. Nat, I thought we discussed that you can just _knock.”_

The other woman shrugs. “Sneaking in is more fun.”

And May has never really _met_ Natasha Romanoff. She knows the basics: former Russian soviet assassin turned SHIELD agent, then Avenger. She’d never really had an opinion on her except a casual, ‘oh, it’s nice to see a woman fighting alongside a bunch of men.’ 

Now she’s been spending a lot of time wondering about her—the woman that her nephew had named his best friend in an interview, a position that only a few months ago had belonged to a sixteen year old boy. 

Because Peter had been sixteen too. 

And now he’s in his twenties and his best friend is an ex-spy. 

“Morgan?”

“Still asleep,” Romanoff assures. “I gave her a little _potseluy_ on my way in.”

“Pardon,” May cuts in, “but why are you here?”

“Well the lights were off at Peter’s, so I figured he and everyone else was staying over at the Tower—until I called Tony and he said you were here. PTA meeting?”

“Funny,” Pepper says dryly, standing. “Thank you for coming tonight, by the way, and for buying that ugly painting of the horse.”

Romanoff laughs. “I’ve decided I’m gonna hang it above my fireplace.”

“You have a fireplace?” May asks, incredulous.

“I do,” the other woman says. She looks May up and down, not unkindly, and then offers her hand. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Natasha Romanoff.”

“I know,” May says. “Believe me, I know.”

She’s just about to leave them with the excuse of grabbing a warm rag to clean up the mess when someone knocks on the door. 

“It’s two in the morning,” Pepper says. “Who could that be?”

“Someone with manners?” Romanoff tosses out coyly. 

“Oh, shut up.”

May isn’t a trained secret agent or whatever, so she brushes past Romanoff’s tense form—the woman is reaching, subtly, for a weapon holstered on her thigh—and doesn’t hesitate before throwing the door open. 

Peter smiles at her. He looks terrible. 

“Hi,” he says. “Can I come in?”

“Uh, yeah,” May steps aside. “Of course. You don’t even have to ask. What the hell happened? Why do you look like ten years were just taken from your lifespan?” 

Peter starts to say something until he spots Pepper and Romanoff. “What is this, a PTA meeting?”

Romanoff’s face lights up. “That’s what I said.”

“Aww, twinning.”

May is getting whiplash. She doesn’t have any idea how to even compute the two of them interacting, much less know how to respond to it. Pepper, gracious as always, does it for her. “Who wants hot chocolate?”

* * *

It’s Nat who makes it while the rest gather at the kitchen peninsula. Peter doesn’t keep them in suspense very long. 

“MJ kind of kicked me out.”

The reactions are, as follows:

“ _What?!_ Honey, what happened?!” from May, “What the hell did you do?!” from Pepper, and a dry, “Serves you right,” from Nat herself.

Peter zeroes in on her. “ _Idi trakhni sebya.”_

Nat sticks out her tongue.

Pepper snaps her fingers. “Hey, we’re not done. I want details, come on.”

“Okay.” Peter rubs his temples. “Okay, so, y’know all that wacky shit we found out about my mom?”

There’s something to be said for the way that Natasha’s stomach plummets at the words, the way that her blood turns ice cold. Suddenly all she can see are headlights against a slushy road, and snow in curly brown hair, and two big green eyes full of unshed tears. _I miss it._

_Me too._

Peter is still talking. “Well, anyway, MJ and I… sort of decided we were gonna try and have a kid.”

May’s eyes widen. Her face loses color. Pepper blinks twice and takes it in stride. 

Nat, of course, had already known. She listens peripherally as she stirs the chocolate and thinks, and remembers: arms around her in the dark, blood all over the bathroom floor, _you are made of marble._

“Okay,” Pepper says slowly. “And?”

“And we were trying for a while, but nothing could really come of it before I asked if we could… wait. I wanted to figure everything out first but I didn’t know how to tell her why. _I_ don’t even know how to rationalise it. And maybe there’s a part of me that thinks we were being a tiny bit rash and I really, _really_ don’t want to say that to her face, because I’m afraid of ruining everything—but by _not_ telling her I totally did that anyway—and so there’s been all this tension, plus I’m super busy so I just…”

May frowns. “You let her take a back seat in your life.”

“She’s right,” Pepper says. “This is entirely your fault.”

“Communication is _key_ in a relationship, Peter.”

“You can’t just avoid your problems and expect them to go away. That’s not how life works.”

“I know all of this stuff is crazy with your mother, _mio nipote,_ but she would have understood.”

“You should have thought it through _before_ you decided to take such a huge step—”

“I have to go,” Natasha bursts, before Peter can stop them himself. The three of them freeze and stare at her, dumbfounded. Nat wipes her cheeks. “Um, it’s—it’s done. And they’re right, Peter, you’re the asshole here.”

He blinks. “Are you okay?”

“Just—I’ll be fine.” At the door she pauses. “Do _not_ come after me. I swear to god. Pepper, keep him put.”

* * *

Harley bursts through the front door and immediately stops. He sniffs the air.

“Something… bad happened here.”

MJ can barely stop herself from sobbing. The choked noise she makes attracts Harley’s attention and he rounds on her, eyes widening at finding her in such a vulnerable state. 

“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “What happened?! Who died?!”

MJ scoffs. “Nobody _died._ ”

Harley, of course, isn’t satisfied. He sets his things down and strides over. “Where are the girls?”

“Justine’s,” MJ says. “I sent them over before because I figured we’d be back late and with everything going on, I wanted them supervised and you _know_ how much of a Karen Justine’s mom is—”

“Okay, okay,” Harley sits down beside her. “Where’s Peter, MJ?”

She feels like she wants to throw up. 

No, like she _needs_ to.

MJ flies off the couch. She makes it to the sink just in time, and Harley is right on her heels with a fresh, “What the fuck?!”

“We broke up,” she spits into the sink.

“ _What?!”_

MJ wipes her mouth. Holds onto the edge of the sink to keep from falling because she’s so dizzy. “I’m, uh—”

“Insane?” Harley suggests.

“Pregnant,” she corrects.

There’s three whole seconds of silence before Harley is lurching forward to empty his stomach into the sink just like she had. MJ steps back in disgust. “God, what’s _your_ problem?”

“Too much to drink,” he rasps, “and I am _so_ not equipped to handle this right now.”

“Gee, thanks for the support, Keener.”

* * *

Natasha enters her apartment with her gun drawn. 

It’s dark. The windows had been shut and locked when she left, but now one is open; the gauzy white curtains lift with the warm spring breeze, but the sight is far from peaceful and calming. 

She scans her living room and the kitchen. This is one reason she’d decided on an open floor plan: less walls to hide behind. 

Nothing. 

Nat takes another few steps. The floorboards creak, and there is a split second of silence before the hairs on the back of her neck rise. 

She whips around just in time to knee the masked intruder in the rib cage, only to be met with a grunt and a blow to the side of her head. Nat stumbles back. There is a series of quick, well-aimed kicks and punches between them. 

Too much precision. Too much strength. The gun goes flying.

This is familiar. She’s done this before. 

A knife drawn out of nowhere. Elbow strike to disarm. A blow to the kneecap, a sweeping kick that her intruder sees coming and jumps; Nat sees _that_ coming and jerks up her other leg, aiming for the groin. That works, but then their foreheads are purposefully smashed together. There’s an arm around her throat. 

Two sharp hits with her elbow to the stomach in rapid succession. A twisting of bodies. Jabs and crosses blocked and stepped around. They can hardly land a hit on each other. Her moves are mirrored. 

A hook and an uppercut to the jaw. Nat sees spots but doesn’t stop. She lets herself get pushed into the wall and uses the force to rebound off of it, lifting her legs to kick her attacker squarely in the chest. The attacker roles out of the way before she can straddle them, and they grab the discarded knife; flip it expertly in hand as they hop back onto their feet. 

Nat throws her little pet cactus. The attacker dodges. 

It’s a beautiful distraction; allows her to lunge forward, feign, and slip between her attacker’s legs. She grabs an arm as she goes under and twists; there is a grunt of pain and the knife is dropped. 

No matter. The attacker grabs Natasha by the hair and pulls. Nat yelps like a kicked puppy.

She’d had her suspicions before.

Now she _knows._

More uppercuts. A roundhouse kick to the jaw. The attacker grabs Nat’s leg and gets her on her back, puts a hand around her throat and _squeezes,_ hard. Nat chokes for a good ten seconds before slapping the kevlar covered wrist. “Uncle,” she rasps.

Maria Petrov pulls off her ski mask and grins. “Hello, little sister.”

**Author's Note:**

> lmaoooooooo
> 
> note 1) yes she’s really pregnant this time 
> 
> note 2) yes im aware mary was dead. key word: WAS
> 
> note 3) peter and steve do in fact live in the same neighborhood msdjkdjd 
> 
> note 4) pls tell me what u thought uwu


End file.
